Pistol In the Mud
by Lex Q.C
Summary: The chance encounter between an inhabitant of a nameless, God-forsaken planet and a Freelancer.


**- Pistol In the Mud -**

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_Halo (c) Microsoft, Bungie and associated creators. RvB (c) Rooster Teeth._

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She wasn't a soldier, or a conscript, or one of the civilians being taken away by the ship. She was not a reporter, nor a trader, nor one of the desperate homeless trying to get off the poverty-stricken planet. Up to her ankles in soggy, churning mud, a dingy and wet coat wrapped around a tattered floral dress, she clutched at herself in the sloppy cold. Late autumn was fading into winter, freckled cheeks red with cold and tight with numbness. She could barely feel her toes, one bare foot pulling up after the other, only leaving her shack to buy rations for the next week. If she didn't move quickly, the UNSC's aid tents would close up, any other hungry souls to wait for next week's shipment.

There was more on her mind today than food. Troopers were running up and down the streets, distributing sandbags around the village and setting up gunner's nests again. There were rumours, paranoia even, about the local Insurrection trying to go after the aid ships to make a point. The village was evacuating, the UNSC trying to clear out as many civilians as possible before the enemy's arrival. They had told the others to bring their own supplies; there was only so much food, water and medicine to go around. People, desperate not to be left to fend for themselves in the tight, restrictive and not-always-monitored corridors of a transport ship, were filling up. A riot had almost broken out already, and the soldiers not preparing were guarding aid tents and arresting looters. Several fights had already been broken up, the angry, frightened and starving flying into fisticuffs at the slightest provocation.

She had already made her mind up not to go. Things happened to women on refugee ships - bad things. Murders, thefts, the kidnapping of any children or younger siblings, and a particularly cruel ploy involving one's papers. More than once had thugs stolen the necessary documentation from a female passenger, denying her a chance to land on a safer planet; the victim would be desperate. Anything would be done to get the paperwork back, motivated by the fear of being returned to the hell-hole escaped. The thugs would do...things...to the women they blackmailed; if not them, whatever person or group the women might be pawned off or sold to. Her own safely buried in the dirt floor of her ramshackle shack, the girl would _not _let anything happen to hers, determined to not be taken advantage of. After getting her rations, she was going home, and would dig out the pistol she kept under her bed.

That is, until someone elbowed past her, clad in UNSC armour of a greyish-black colour. She grunted and winced, nearly falling back into the cold mud. Biting back a curse, the girl would have yelled a few choice words -

Until her foot nudged something dropped into the mud. Looking down, the girl's eyes, blue as a sky unclouded, saw it was a pistol. A modernized, unrusted, fully-loaded version of her own, blazoned with a military logo and freshly-cleaned. The girl quickly bent down, careful to cover it with the edge of her coat as she picked it up. Slowly, she stood and inspected the weapon, checking to make sure it the safety was on.

Feet sucking loudly as she tried running, the girl's voice tried to rise over the splashing, panicked din of the crowd. "Excuse me!" she yelled, trying to keep an eye on the black soldier in the crowd. "Excuse me! Excuse me!"

The soldier in black kept moving forward, swiftly stalking like a panther. Glaring in frustration, the girl snapped, "_HEY!_ ASSHOLE IN THE BLACK SUIT!"

_That _got the soldier's attention. Swiftly stopping and turning around, the fighter moved too quickly for the girl to even blink, coming up upon her like a wolf upon its prey. "_Yes_?" asked a woman, the growling tone and edged hiss indicative she had no time for bullshit. The girl squeaked, freezing in place; it took her a moment to come back to her senses.

Slowly bringing the pistol towards the black-clad woman, the girl said, in a voice that was almost a whisper, "You dropped this. I didn't want anyone taking it."

The woman said nothing, did nothing for a split-second, then quickly took the weapon. She stared at the girl like the girl was a ghost; if anyone looked closely enough, the word was fitting. The girl's face was sunken and bony, eyes empty and tired save for her annoyed look. Her skin was pale, as if anaemic or malnourished, and her red, braided hair was thinning and dirty. Her entire body was grime-splattered, and there were many cuts, scars and bruises if one looked close enough.

All the black woman could say was, "Thanks," before turning away, marching towards the ship with both authority and speed. She pressed the radio button on her helmet; all the girl heard was the muffled words "Project Freelancer". Turning away, the younger of the two hurried back towards the aid station, still hoping she could get there in time to be fed.


End file.
